


Interrogate

by illwick



Series: Unwind [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Biting, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Come as Lube, Consensual Kink, Dom!John, Hair-pulling, Handcuffs, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Table Sex, Under-negotiated Kink, Violent Sex, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock's Dark Moods are a force to be reckoned with.





	1. Chapter 1

"Mmm." John closes his eyes as he focuses his full attention on the the deliciously tight heat surrounding his cock. He thrusts into Sherlock in slow, leisurely strokes, taking his damn time for once-- It's Sunday morning, they're not on a case, by some miracle Rosie isn't awake yet, and he'd awoken to an aroused and fully-nude Sherlock pressing against him with an impatient huff. Things had progressed quickly from there, but now that they've reached the main event, John wants to take some time to savour it.

His eyes still closed, he runs his hands up the uneven flesh of Sherlock's scarred back, the raised pattern familiar beneath his fingertips. Sherlock sighs appreciatively; John knows he's self-conscious about the scars, but lately he's been more receptive to John's appreciation of them, and his muscles feel relaxed and pliant against John's palms. John issues a deep, guttural groan and grips Sherlock's hips, repositioning him slightly to allow John to penetrate him even more deeply.

Sherlock sighs again. John cracks one eye open; that didn't sound like a pleasurable sigh, it sounded like an exasperated sigh, and John wonders momentarily if perhaps he should add more lube; they'd been at it for a while, and he suspects Sherlock may be starting to chafe.

But a few well-directed experimental thrusts throw that theory out the window; Sherlock's channel still feels decadently slick, and a quick swipe of John's thumbs around the area where they're joined confirms that Sherlock's rim is still well-lubricated and receptive. John returns his hands to Sherlock's hips and continues to plunge into him at a leisurely pace.

Another sigh. This time, both of John's eyes fly open and he pauses, balls-deep in Sherlock's arse.

"You alright?"

"Yes, John. Carry on." Sherlock's tone sounds completely disinterested.

John rolls his eyes. Sherlock had been in a great snit for three days straight and John had foolishly thought that the fact he'd woken him with a little morning delight in mind meant that he'd snapped out of it, but it appeared that was not the case. He sounded just as stroppy as ever.

John resumes thrusting and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, spreading his legs a bit further and rolling his neck absentmindedly as John takes him from behind. He huffs.

John pauses again. "Seriously, Sherlock. Is something wrong? It seems like I'm inconveniencing you here."

Sherlock throws an exasperated glare back over his shoulder. "I'm not inconvenienced. This is fine."

"'Fine?' Christ, you'd better hold back with the compliments, it'll go straight to my head."

"Alright, John, what do you want me to say?"

"I don't _want_ you to say anything you don't want to say, but maybe just act like having my cock up your arse isn't a hassle?"

Sherlock returns his gaze forward towards the headboard and begins to undulate his body, raising and lowering himself onto John's stationery cock. "Better?"

"Mmm. Yes, thank you." John begins to meet him thrust for thrust, and quickly finds his rhythm again. He lets out a low moan. Beneath him, Sherlock remains suspiciously silent.

"Oh, that's it. Mmm. Yes, _yes,_ Sherlock. God, you're so tight this morning, Christ. God, _yes..."_

No response. John tries not to be offended, but he can't help himself.

"Oy!" He issues a light slap to Sherlock's left arsecheek. "You planning on participating here?"

"My apologies, John, I didn't realise you need me to narrate the entire experience for you. Allow me to rectify the situation: Oh. Oh, John. Oh. Oh. Right there. Your cock is so amazing. It feels so good inside of me. You're so huge. Your dick is so perfect and manly. Do me. Do me now." He recites it all in his most disinterested monotone, and John can practically FEEL him rolling his eyes.

John stops thrusting again, but he doesn't pull out. "For fuck's sake! What is _wrong_ with you? I thought you wanted this?"

"I did, but my attentions have since been diverted. I got bored."

"You're _bored?"_

"I _was_ bored. I've since rectified the situation." He holds out his right hand, revealing his mobile.

"You're on your _phone?_ While I'm _inside of you?"_

Sherlock shrugs and hazards a glance back over his shoulder. "It seemed rude to ask you to stop."

"Oh my _God,_ you are such a fucking _prat."_ John pulls out entirely. His cock is angry and red and aching for release (he'd surely only have lasted a few more minutes at best), but the mood's been broken. He scrambles off the bed and heads for the bathroom.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sherlock's still on his elbows and knees, but he's throwing John an utterly scandalised look from his position on the bed.

"I am taking my amazing, huge, perfect, _manly_ cock into the shower and taking care of this myself."

"John, come on, it's not that big a deal."

"Sherlock, you were texting while I was inside of you. Even _you_ know that is _more than a bit not good."_

Sherlock flops onto his stomach with a disinterested sigh. "Fine. Suit yourself."

_"FINE."_

John almost slams the bathroom door behind him before remembering that Rosie was still asleep, and stops himself at the last minute. He turns on the taps and steps under the spray of the shower, all but quivering with rage.

Infuriatingly, he's still half-hard. A part of him wants to just let his erection wane while he seethes over Sherlock's transgression, but the other part of him doesn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction. He knows Sherlock will be able to tell the minute he lays eyes on him whether he got off, and spitefully, he wants to make Sherlock very aware that he is _perfectly_ capable of satisfying himself. He wraps his hand around his cock and sets a punishing pace. 

At first all his brain will supply are images from his tryst with Sherlock this morning; the excitement of waking to Sherlock's hardness against his thigh, the thrill of running his lips and teeth and tongue over the miles of pale skin exposed in the warm morning sunlight, the sight of Sherlock's hole constricting around his fingers as he prepped him, the ecstasy of the moment his cock first breached Sherlock's rim and finally, _finally_ was seated inside him, the heat of their union total and utter perfection.

But then a fresh wave of rage washes over him, and he forces his mind onto a different track entirely. He thinks about the pretty actress from that movie he and Stamford had seen a few nights ago; she was petite, blonde, and had perfectly pert tits that bounced as she ran. She was golden and feminine and soft and supple and everything that Sherlock was _not,_ and John's mind spins a delightful fantasy of fucking her in the jungle bunker featured in the film. In no time, he's spilling into his fist, issuing a series of bitten-off grunts.

He emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later to find the bedroom abandoned. He dresses and makes his way to the sitting room, where Sherlock has relocated to his standard pouting position, lying prone on the sofa, glaring at the ceiling. His eyes flick over to John and take in his relaxed state. They narrow. John smirks. Sherlock huffs and flips over onto his side to face the back of the sofa.

John is being petty, he knows, but Sherlock... well, Sherlock had started it, hadn't he? Not only was he being an utter brat this morning, but he'd been in a foul mood all week, picking fights with John whenever he was in the mood to talk, and languishing about the flat in brooding silence when he wasn't. He'd been staying up until all hours hacking away at the strings of his violin, disturbing Rosie's fragile sleeping pattern and berating John when she woke in protest.

The one bright side to all of it was that, even in his darkest of Dark Moods, Sherlock was never cruel towards Rosie. Instead, he was completely indifferent, ignoring her existence entirely, reverting to his bachelor lifestyle without his usual willing participation in feedings, playtime, and bedtime. Rosie was still too young to process that anything was amiss, and John couldn't bring himself to blame Sherlock at all; John appreciated that even in his darkest of moods, Sherlock at least showed restraint where Rosie was concerned.

John's barely put the kettle on when he hears Rosie on the baby monitor, and he trudges dutifully up to the nursery to get the day properly started.

All in all, the day is a good one, Sherlock's Dark Mood aside. Eager to avoid the flat, John takes Rosie to the park to feed the ducks, then Molly meets up with them and they pass the early afternoon at the zoo. He tries not to notice the appraising glances the three of them get as they make their way through the exhibits; the perfect, happy nuclear family. John never really noticed the the public's reaction to his family back when Mary was still around, but since he and Sherlock have been raising Rosie together, he's picked up on the discrepancy in the looks he gets when he's out and about with Molly and the baby versus when it's him and Sherlock. It makes him feel slightly defeated, but he tries not to let it bristle him today. He's just being overly sensitive, he reasons--collateral damage after three days of dealing with an incorrigible partner.

Finally, he can't avoid the flat any longer; Rosie is growing cranky and Molly has errands to run, so John returns to Baker Street and makes his way up the stairs filled with mild trepidation. He’s surprised to enter the flat to find a showered, dressed, and frankly cheerful-looking Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, typing furiously into his phone.

John deposits Rosie in her playpen and leans against the kitchen doorframe. Sherlock doesn’t look up.

“Excellent, John. You’re finally ready to go.”

John blinks. “Sorry, what? I just got home, my jacket’s still on--where are we going?”  
Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up from the table, pocketing his mobile. “I told you, Lestrade texted. Case. We’re needed at the Yard immediately.”

“Was I here when you conveyed this information?”

Sherlock pauses, then squints slightly, biting his lip. “Perhaps not. But no matter. You’re here now, you’ve got your jacket on, we can be on our way. I’ll get a cab.” He strides out of the kitchen towards the door.

“OY! Sherlock! Forgetting something? Human child? Our responsibility? Any thoughts on what we should do with her?” He’s trying not to get exasperated, really he is--he knows he should just be grateful that Sherlock’s foul mood has seemingly dissipated, but John can’t help but be annoyed by the number of demands being thrown at him without hesitation or remorse after their row this morning. He knows he should know better by now; Sherlock is the king of divorcing the personal from the professional, so John shouldn’t be surprised that the events from earlier hadn’t factored into Sherlock’s current mood. But John isn’t Sherlock, and he’s still more than a bit peeved.

“Hudders is on her way up. She said she’d--”

“Yoohoo, boys?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoes up the stairwell, followed by the sound of her uneven footsteps. “Are you headed out already?” She appears in the doorway, and Sherlock ushers her in.

“Yes, Mrs. H, we were just leaving.” Sherlock grabs his Belstaff and scarf off the peg by the door and clambers down the stairs without a second thought.

John sighs and closes his eyes, willing himself to be patient. Mrs. Hudson shoots him a sympathetic glance. “Oooh, sorry dear. Another rough day?”

“You could say that. At least the case seems to have cheered him up.”

“Quite right, I was beginning to worry. Now, where’s my sweet Rose?” She makes her way over to the playpen, where Rosie squeals with delight upon her arrival, bouncing up and down and extending her pudgy hands.

Despite himself, John grins. Mrs. Hudson had been a complete godsend in caring for Rosie, and Rosie adores her like a grandmother. “She ate about an hour ago, so she’ll just need a snack and then dinner at her usual time. I’ve no idea what the deal is with this case we’re on; I’d literally just walked in the door when Sherlock informed me we were leaving.”

“No worries at all, dear. You just go save the city from whatever nasty baddie’s on the lam. Sweet Rose and I will hold down the home front, won’t we, love?” She tickles Rosie’s tummy, and Rosie shrieks and claps her hands in glee.

“Cheers, Mrs. H. We owe you dinner again.”

“Just add it to your tab, dear. And as a reminder, I also take payment in gin. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a proper drink together.”

“Right you are. I’ll remedy that as soon as we close the case.”

“Off you get, now. That man of yours is waiting, and he’s none too patient.”

As if on cue, the sound of a honking taxi echoes through the window. John shakes his head, grins, and dashes down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reconciliation is mandatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with previous installments, this work makes reference to events that took place during my “In Between” series, but it’s not crucial to have read it to get the gist of what’s going on.
> 
> Also, please consider the following warning: This chapter describes an under-negotiated sexual encounter. Though everything is explicitly consensual, it falls a bit outside the boundaries of “Safe, Sane & Consensual” as I’ve established them in this series. The results are not glamorized, and the consequences are thoroughly addressed.

“Of _course_ it wasn’t a _lacrosse stick,_ John, are you _seriously_ that dense? The circumference of the weapon is clearly more than 9 centimetres, and the standard for lacrosse indicates it must be 8 and a half or under.”

“Well _excuse me_ for not knowing the exact equipment dimension regulations for a sport I’ve never seen played, considering--”

“You’re excused. Though I’m frankly _sick_ of your excuses, they’re a constant distraction, and I’m trying to do actual _Work_ here, _if you don’t mind.”_

John is so angry he’s seeing red. Usually when he and Sherlock work a case together, they move in perfect tandem, a matched set. Even when John feels completely out of his depth, he’s learned to make his opinion known; it’s never ceased to surprise him how often some seemingly pointless, obvious observation of his has been just the “conductor of light” that Sherlock needs to jump to the next conclusion. So over the years, he’s learned to let his guard down, take his filter off, and let his thoughts flow.

But today, it’s all gone to shit. He and Sherlock are ready to tear each other’s throats out, and to make matters worse, they’re working the case from the Yard--a series of particularly violent muggings in a very posh part of town had Lestrade under the gun, and he’d brought the two of them in to review the evidence in one of the situation rooms at the station. Unfortunately, this meant the whole spectacle of John and Sherlock’s bickering was on display for the entertainment of the rest of Lestrade’s team, who had been attempting to work the case themselves (but had long since given up in favour of watching the drama play out instead). The three sergeants (in addition to Lestrade himself) were currently lined up with their backs against the wall, watching the two of them hurl insults at each other like a tennis match.

“No, really, by all means, go ahead and do all the work yourself. I’ve got plenty of better things to do than sit here and watch you make an arse of yourself, stalking about and acting all high and mighty as though you’ve got some grand idea of what the hell is going on here, though in reality, you’re in no better shape than the rest of us plebeians. Why don’t you just _admit it_ already?”

Sherlock whirls to face him, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he strides up until he’s towering over John. To anyone else the display of dominance would have been intimidating, but John simply squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, meets Sherlock’s eyes without blinking, and braces for whatever verbal lashing Sherlock is about to lay out. Sherlock opens his mouth and draws a determined breath.

And freezes.

Sherlock blinks twice, cocks his head, and then closes and opens his mouth several times in a row, like a fish out of water. Then a look crosses his face, and John knows instantly what’s happened.

He’s cracked it.

Seconds later, Sherlock is typing furiously into his phone, pulling up the relevant information as quickly as possible, muttering incoherently to himself. “Of course, of _course, obvious…_ but could it really… if the schedule… it does… stupid, _stupid, why_ must people be so dull? Annoying.”

He pockets his phone and turns to face the rest of them. “You’ll need to call up the Highgarden School of Martial Arts and request the list of students enrolled in the Tuesday evening Bojutsu course. One of them is your mugger. He’ll be late twenties. Fairly affluent. Athletic.”

Navarre, one of the newer sergeants that they’d not yet worked any cases with, looks skeptical. “How do you know?”

Sherlock issues an exasperated sigh. “Simple. The dimensions of the murder weapon perfect match that of the _bo,_ a traditional long staff weapon used in several varieties of martial arts. Not exactly the easiest item to carry down the street without people taking note, unless one was carrying it in an area in which seeing them about is the norm; in other words, in the vicinity of a training school. There are only a select few gymnasiums that train with them, and one happens to be located within three blocks of each of the four assaults. Now, that wouldn’t necessarily narrow down the search that much on its own, were it not for the fact that all four assaults occurred on a Tuesday night. Strange coincidence, possibly, but more probable that the mugger had a reason to be in the area every Tuesday: to attend class. And you’ll note there’s been a mugging every Tuesday for the past five weeks, with the exception of two weeks ago--and according to the Highgarden School of Martial Arts Facebook page, classes were unexpectedly cancelled that evening due to a plumbing problem. So our culprit is certainly a member of the school and attends the _bo_ class that meets every Tuesday evening. Simple.”

Navarre attempts (unsuccessfully) to hide the look of awe on her face. John would usually interject at this point with an impressed, “Brilliant” or “Amazing,” but he’s still fucking furious with Sherlock, regardless of the fact he’d just solved the case, and he’s not in a particularly benevolent mood. 

Instead, he just raises his eyebrows at the sergeants and asks, “Can we go now?” He just needs to get out of that room and away from Sherlock before he’s tempted to take a swing at him.

Navarre shrugs. “Sure, we can take it from here.”

John strides towards the door (determined to make Sherlock follow in _his_ wake for once, the arrogant prat) and makes to leave, but Greg’s voice pipes up from behind him.

“Actually, I need the two of you to take a look at something. Come with me.” John tries to catch Greg’s eye, but he simply pushes past him and gestures for John and Sherlock to follow. He escorts them through the bustling corridors of the Yard and into the lift, wherein he punches the button for an unfamiliar floor.

“Care to enlighten us as to what this is about?” Sherlock sounds thoroughly unamused. “You called me in in the middle of a rather pressing experiment, and I’m quite keen to get back to it.”

John lets out a derogatory snort. “Pressing experiment? You’d been lounging about on the sofa in your pajamas for the last three days. Don’t act like you’re not fucking thrilled to be here.”

Sherlock’s lips pull up into a sneer as he rounds on John. “You _are_ aware that just because I’m not working on something in the physical sense doesn’t mean I’m not working on it mentally, right? I was in the middle of some extremely delicate brain work when Lestrade so rudely interrupted, and I--”

“Oh shove off, you were _delighted_ to come, you weren’t doing fancy fucking _brain work,_ you were languishing about and pouting like a sullen fucking child, as if I don’t already have one to deal with, on top of--”

“OY.” Greg is glaring at the two of them with a look that stops John cold. Apparently Greg meant business. “Will the two of you shut the hell up? _Jesus.”_

“Sorry, Greg.” John capitulates bashfully. He suddenly feels rather guilty for the way he and Sherlock were behaving, and now they’d dragged Greg into it… But hell, Sherlock had been asking for it, hadn’t he? It wasn’t John’s fault he wasn’t in the mood to be trampled over by Sherlock’s incessant--

The lift doors open and Greg leads them down an empty and unfamiliar hall, stopping outside an unmarked room and opening it with a key. Upon entering, it becomes obvious that it’s the observation chamber for an interrogation room; a large glass window looked out over a sparsely-furnished concrete cubicle containing only a single table, two chairs, and an overhead lamp. Greg opens the door to the interrogation room and gestures for them to go inside.

Sherlock breezes into the room immediately without hesitation. John, however, shoots Greg a quizzical look, but Greg simply stares daggers back at him until he capitulates and follows Sherlock through the door.

Greg slams the door behind them. John whirls on instinct and grabs the handle, but it was too late: they were locked inside.

“What the _fuck,_ Greg?”

_“What the fuck_ yourself, John? The two of you made an absolute arse of me in front of my subordinates today, you know that? This is the first case I’ve worked with those junior officers, and I told them that working with the two of you would be an important learning experience. Instead, I get you two acting like you’re about to break into a brawl in the middle of my assignment. You were rude, unprofessional, and frankly, an embarrassment.”

“But I solved the case.” Sherlock is standing in front of the two-way mirror, glaring indignantly in Greg’s presumed direction.

“And cost me a good deal of face with my team.”

“So what, you’re putting us in time-out?” Sherlock’s tone is dismissive, but John can detect an edge of agitation to it that can only mean he suspects Greg isn’t playing around.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m leaving the two of you in here until you talk out whatever the hell is bothering you. You’ve got your mobiles on you; call me when you’re sorted and I’ll come down and let you out.”

John is irate. Sure, he and Sherlock perhaps hadn’t been behaving in the most professional manner, but what right did Greg have to stick his nose in their business? “Shove off, Greg. Whatever issues we have, they’re personal. Not your concern.”

“Mmm, see, that’s where you’re wrong. When you came into my situation room today and decided to behave like children, you made your personal issue my professional one. And that’s frankly fucking unacceptable, and it’s not going to happen again.”

Sherlock steps up until his nose is practically touching the glass. “Look, Greg, _please.”_ John can tell without looking that he’s put on his kicked-puppy face, and the fact he’s using Greg’s accurate first name means he’s _really_ pushing for a win here. “John and I just had a little domestic at home. Sorry we let it interfere with the case. We promise it won’t happen again. Just let us out.”

“Ha. Nope, sorry. Don’t act like I haven’t seen you put that face on before, Holmes, Jesus, do you think I’m stupid? No, don’t answer that. I’m going back upstairs to wrap up this case. One of you text me when you’ve come up with an appropriate, professional action plan on how to avoid this situation from _ever_ happening again. Understood?”

Sherlock’s demeanor has changed entirely. The kicked-puppy look has dissolved, and he’s gone a bit red around his ears and cheekbones. Suddenly, he lashes out and slams his fist against the glass. “FUCK OFF! Let us out of here, RIGHT NOW. This isn’t cute. This isn’t funny.” His face is contorted with rage, and John is suddenly struck by just how badly Sherlock doesn’t want to be here. He looks apoplectic. 

They’re met with only echoing silence. Greg was gone.

They stand frozen in place for what feels like forever, the reality of the situation slowly settling over them. Sherlock is the first to move.

“Fuck this.” He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and begins punching at the keys furiously.

“What are you doing? You know Greg’s not going to come back down here.”

“Not texting Greg. Texting Dimmock. He’ll come. He owes me. I’ll just-- fucking HELL.”

“What?”

“There’s no service down here.”

John blinks stupidly. “What?”

“There’s no bloody service. Check your mobile.” 

John reaches for his phone only to find his jacket pocket empty. “Shit, I must have left it at home in our rush to get here.”

Sherlock’s head pivots slowly, and when his eyes meet John’s, his face is a mask of rage. It seems to take him a moment to gather his wits about him to the extent that he can form a sentence. “You FORGOT your fucking PHONE?”

“Well I’d just walked through the door when you were practically dragging me back out into the street again, I didn’t exactly have time to prepare!”

“And if this had been an ACTUAL case, John? A six-or-above, honest-to-God case, and you were, what, just going to fanny about without your phone or your weapon? What, precisely, were you intending to bring to the table here? Clearly not your brilliance, or your wit or, frankly, good looks, you look utter shit, by the way, have you been sleeping?”

“NO, since SOMEONE has taken to hacking away at his bloody violin at all hours of the night!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, _it helps me to think!”_

“Think about WHAT, might I ask? About what exactly you need to do to find yourself the victim of a rage-induced homicide? About what steps you might take to disrupt the sleep patterns of a toddler so completely that she’s entirely dysfunctional the next day? About annoying habits you can develop to make your partner want to fucking SMASH your precious instrument to bits upside your thick head?”

“Oh please, it’s not like I didn’t warn you! I told you first time we met that the violin helped me think. You can’t start claiming it upsets you now.”

“Oh, no, of course not. Clearly nothing in our situation has changed over the course of, oh, I don’t know, the last FIVE YEARS that would maybe make the current circumstances a bit extenuating.”

“AH, so that IS how it is! I fucking KNEW it.”

“Knew WHAT?”

“You want me to change! You think that just because we’re fucking and that we have a child and that you tell me you love me that I ought to somehow conform to your higher standards of how a REAL partner ought to behave! I KNEW it!”

“Oh, shove off, you know I don’t mean it like that, Jesus. But actually, while we’re on the subject, has it occurred to you to maybe OCCASIONALLY think of someone else besides yourself when you’re in the middle of one of your moods?”

“No, it hasn’t, because I don’t fucking WANT to. I didn’t ask for this, you know, I didn’t ask for any of this! And I don’t know why you’re so hellbent on making this about you, anyway! MY moods are MY issue, stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“I’ll stick my nose wherever the hell I want when it concerns my goddamn family!”

“Oh, of course, in that case, you’re completely entitled. Carry on meddling, then, I’m sure you’ll be able to _fix me right up._ Never mind I’ve had my Dark Moods my entire goddamn life, I’m sure the only reason they’ve persisted is because I haven’t had the priviledge of your insightful suggestions to help me _snap out of it._ Arrogant prick.”

“I’M the arrogant prick? Oh, that’s rich, coming from you, you self-indulgent WANKER.”

“FUCK you.”

“No, fuck YOU.”

Somewhere in the exchange, John and Sherlock had wound up toe-to-toe, noses mere inches apart as they shouted back and forth at one another. John hates arguing with Sherlock like this; usually their height difference doesn’t bother him, but the way Sherlock towers over him when he gets up in John’s space irritates John to no end, and he finds himself shockingly tempted to throw a punch.

But before he can reflect on that impulse, Sherlock is grabbing John by the front of his shirt and smashing their lips together.

As kisses go, it’s a brutal one, all force and tongue and teeth and a strange, grappling swaying as they move to pull each other closer. John’s adrenaline-drunk brain abruptly registers that Sherlock is already hard and pressing himself earnestly against John’s thigh, and he feels his own cock begin to rapidly rise in response.

They should stop.

Christ, they should stop.

John knows from reading the Power Dynamics websites and message boards that engaging in any type of sexual activity whilst angry is a huge red flag, especially in a relationship that frequently involves D/S dynamics like theirs does. But he’s also acutely aware of the fact that, despite his wank in the shower, a low-watt arousal has been buzzing under his skin since his aborted encounter with Sherlock that morning, and some primal part of him is overwhelmed with the frantic urge to finish what they’d started.

It’s strange, he thinks to himself as he bites Sherlock’s bottom lip viciously while palming his length through his trousers, causing Sherlock to moan wantonly into his mouth. His desire for Sherlock was such an odd, bewildering thing, simmering beneath the surface all the time but rearing its head suddenly and without warning under the strangest of circumstances. He’d learned to control it for the sake of the Work, but at moments like this, he can’t help but wonder what wires were crossed in his brain (and Sherlock’s, too, for that matter) that would suddenly make being locked in an interrogation room screaming at one another feel like the most intense foreplay he’s ever experienced.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. Sherlock is panting obscenely and thrusting against John’s palm as John takes the tender flesh at the side of his throat between his teeth and bites, hard, eliciting a yelp from Sherlock and an unmissable throb from his eager prick. Fuck, he’s exquisite like this.

John’s next move surprises even himself; upon later reflection, he’ll have no recollection what caused him to take their encounter in such a direction, so he chalks it up to simple genius. 

Holding fast with his teeth on Sherlock’s throat, his spare hand not occupied with Sherlock’s cock snakes into the inner pocket of his Belstaff, where he knows Sherlock keeps a spare pair of handcuffs whenever they’re out on a case. His fingers close around the cool metal and before Sherlock has a chance to react, John grabs Sherlock’s right hand and snaps one of the cuffs around his wrist.

Sherlock freezes. John feels suddenly strangely self-conscious; was this a bridge too far? Had he misinterpreted the situation entirely? He pulls his lips away from the mark he’d been worrying into Sherlock’s pale skin and looks up to meet his eyes.

Sherlock is blinking uncomprehendingly, the way he does when his brain goes offline. He’s staring at the cuff around his wrist as though he’s never seen a pair of handcuffs before, his breath coming in quick pants through slightly parted lips. He looks entirely flummoxed.

John reaches up and cups Sherlock’s cheek with his hand, turning his face so that his eyes meet John’s.

“Alright? Or we can stop. Just say the word.”

Sherlock blinks a few more times. The air in the room feels suffocating with anticipation.

Finally, Sherlock opens his mouth and speaks.

_“Yes. Oh, God. Yes.”_

John doesn’t wait for further clarification. Before Sherlock can brace himself, John spins him by his wrist to face the table and clamps his hand onto Sherlock’s left shoulder, preventing him from twisting away from John’s grasp. He digs his knee into the back of Sherlock’s thigh, knocking Sherlock abruptly off-balance and sending him pitching forward, then presses his forearm across Sherlock’s back, forcing his torso down onto the metal table. 

It’s at this point in their encounter that one of two things will happen: Either Sherlock will submit entirely, going still and pliant beneath John’s commanding hands, or Sherlock will fight, challenging John’s authority and making him force him into submission.

John shouldn’t be surprised at which option Sherlock goes for today.

He rears up almost as quickly as he went down, regaining his balance and planting his feet in a fighting stance to offer better leverage. John knows he has to act quickly, or Sherlock will be back upright and in a position to gain the upper hand within seconds.

John manages to grab Sherlock’s hair just in the knick of time. He twists his fingers into the unruly curls and yanks downward, bringing Sherlock’s head back towards the table.

Sherlock’s follicles are incredibly sensitive, and while he enjoys some light tugging when they’re having vanilla sex, his reaction to the pain of a hard yank during one of their sessions is something else entirely.

It works like a charm. Sherlock cries out and lets his chest collapse back onto the table, alleviating the pressure on his follicles with a relieved gasp. John takes the opportunity to grab Sherlock’s cuffed hand and raise it up above his head, to where a metal loop was affixed to the centre of the table intended for this very purpose (well, maybe not this _exact_ purpose, but close enough). John forces the empty cuff through the loop and grabs Sherlock’s free hand, raising it up to meet the other before snapping the cuff triumphantly around his wrist.

Breathing hard, John steps back to survey his victory.

Sherlock is fairly thoroughly immobilised, his wrists secured to the table with the cuffs in place. Though from a seated position it would be fairly comfortable to extend one’s arms into this position, the chair had been kicked to the side in the scuffle, and should Sherlock decide to attempt to stand, he’d not have nearly enough lead on the cuffs; he’d be left hunched over and off-balance. Having apparently assessed this, he’s seemingly resigned himself to his fate and is currently resting with his torso prone across the table, head twisted to one side, breathing heavily from the altercation and nearly vibrating with adrenaline.

God, he’s lovely.

John issues a non-committal hum and Sherlock moans, arching his back and presenting his arse enticingly, even beneath the forgiving drape of the Belstaff.

So he’s decided to submit, then.

Excellent.

Cautiously, John steps forward until he’s standing behind Sherlock, his hardened cock straining against the denim of his jeans a mere inch from Sherlock’s gorgeous backside.

“Mmm.”

John grabs the bottom hem of the Belstaff and flips it up, providing him a much-improved view.

Sherlock moans.

John can’t help himself. He grabs Sherlock’s pert arsecheeks and squeezes, massaging them slowly before pressing his cock against them and thrusting lightly. Sherlock lets out a series of light pants in time with John’s thrusts. John can only see the side of his face, but his eyes are closed and his mouth is slack; he looks lost in the sensation, and John grins down at him.

Slowly, he reaches around to unfasten Sherlock’s belt, never faltering in the rhythm of his thrusts. The button and zipper are next, and moments later, he wraps his fist around Sherlock’s exposed cock, and begins to strip him mercilessly.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he issues a startled cry. He’d undoubtedly been expecting John to tease him, torture him, perhaps order him to come untouched, but John has something else in mind entirely for today.

He’s relentless in his ministrations, and within seconds, Sherlock is choking out a garbled warning.

“God! John! Going to--going to-- Oh! Oh!” He throws a frantic look back over his shoulder and attempts to meet John’s eyes.

John simply grabs the hair at the nape of his neck and forces his gaze forward, his left hand never pausing. He’s gripping Sherlock’s cock too tightly for it to be entirely comfortable, he knows, and the complete lack of lubricant must be unpleasant indeed. But Sherlock is quivering beneath him, helpless to fight off the onslaught of sensation, and John begins to move his hand faster, faster… He feels Sherlock coil and tense beneath him, and he lets go of Sherlock’s hair and cups his right hand over the head of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock comes with a shout that sounds more pained than pleasurable, panting out a series of curses as wave after wave of come pulses into John’s cupped hand. Finally, he goes slack, panting and shaking as he trembles against the unforgiving metal surface of the table.

John steps away and inspects the contents of his right hand. He could be responsible about this, he knows. He could simply pull down Sherlock’s trousers and pants and jerk himself off all over those gorgeous round globes and call it a day. But somehow after being denied his release this morning, he’s overwhelmed with a desire to be _inside_ Sherlock, circumstances be damned.

Using his free left hand, he pulls Sherlock’s trousers and pants down to his thighs, exposing him to John’s advances, then brings his pointer and index finger to his mouth and wets them copiously with saliva before pressing them firmly against Sherlock’s hole.

John’s pleased to find that his initial suspicions were correct; Sherlock’s still a bit open from their lengthy (if unsatisfying) encounter that morning. He’s nowhere near ready for full penetration again, but he’s still a bit looser than normal, and John’s confident that he won’t cause any harm as he presses his fingers slowly inside and begins to scissor them, gradually providing a growing stretch.

Sherlock moans and swears. John knows Sherlock gets off on overstimulation and that taking John immediately following his own orgasm is right at the top of his list of preferences, but he always makes a fuss about it, regardless of the situation. 

John lets out an affirming hum. “There, now, just relax. Come on, sweetheart, let me have you. Don’t fight me now.” Sherlock lets out a long, low whine, but John can feel his muscles relaxing around his fingers as John speaks, gentling him through the process. “That’s it, love, just like that. So lovely, so gorgeous, that’s it. Easy, now. I’m going to add another.”

He withdraws his two fingers, and before adding a third, he drags them all through the come he’s still cupping in his right hand. It’s a pisspoor substitution for actual lubricant, but in a pinch, it would have to do. He presses back inside Sherlock’s hole with three fingers.

Sherlock grunts and swears again, but he tries to spread his legs a bit further, despite being restrained by the pants and trousers stuck halfway down his thighs. He arches his back and buries his face in his arm, clearly overstimulated to the point of discomfort.

“Yes, sweetheart. Good. I think you’re almost ready. Just a little more.” John withdraws his fingers and adds more come before pushing them back inside, making a most delightful squelching sound that sends shivers down his spine and straight to the end of his cock.

“Mmm. Yes. Going to take you now, love. Hold still.” John withdraws his fingers and unfastens his fly, pulling out his throbbing cock. Using his right hand, he coats himself as thoroughly in Sherlock’s come as he can. He’s pleased to find there’s plenty to go around; Sherlock’s emissions were usually fairly generous (at least, during the first round), and it’s more than enough to cover John’s cock with a bit to spare, which he pushes into Sherlock’s hole with his fingers before lining himself up.

John takes a deep breath, and drives inside.

He should have seen it coming. He knew Sherlock was in a fighting mood, he knew it, and yet he’d gone down with no more than a little hair-pulling to get him in place. Of course John should have suspected that Sherlock wasn’t finished yet.

The minute John bottoms out, Sherlock pulls himself upright (at least, as much as he could with his hands still fastened to the table with the cuffs) and shoves his body backward, attempting to unseat John entirely. John is caught completely off-guard and nearly falls over onto his arse, his legs trapped by his own trousers, which were currently resting mid-thigh. It’s only due to his better-than-average reflexes that he’s able to grab onto Sherlock’s hips at the last second, narrowly avoiding disaster. Sherlock bucks and twists, and John slips out of him as he scrabbles to gain the upper hand.

John knows he has to act fast. He throws himself forward with all of his weight, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck in a headlock in a desperate effort to bring him back down. He’s wildly reminded of their fight outside Irene Adler’s residence all those years ago, when Sherlock had told John to punch him in the alley. John has to suppress the overwhelming urge to giggle at the memory.

His plan works as well as could be expected. Sherlock, apparently not expecting John to throw himself into the fray with such gusto, topples forward, his torso slamming back into the table. John keeps him in the headlock and hisses into his year.

“Are you quite finished now, darling?” Sherlock lets out a frustrated wail, and John tightens his lock, restricting Sherlock’s airflow further. “No trouble. I’ll wait. You can struggle all you want, but you’re not getting out of here without my come in your arse. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can get on with it.” Sherlock thrashes once, twice, but his efforts become increasingly feeble as he slowly begins to surrender. John tightens his grip around his neck just a bit more to drive the point home, and Sherlock drops bonelessly back onto the table.

“There we are, sweetheart, that’s it. Are you going to be good and take me now?”

Sherlock is slow to respond, and when he does, his words sound thick and heavy. “Yes, John.”

“Mmm, lovely. I’m going to release you now. You’ll hold still and take what I give you, if you know what’s good for you.”

Sherlock’s voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, John.”

“Good.” John releases his hold and Sherlock heaves in a ragged breath, but he remains pliant and submissive atop the table. 

Grinning to himself, John parts Sherlock’s cheeks. He’d made a bit of a mess of himself during the struggle, but John’s pleased to see he still seems loose and lubricated enough to take him. He lines up his cock, and thrusts inside.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t last long. The heady combination of adrenaline, testosterone, and endorphins has reduced John to his most primitive form, and he surrenders to his animalistic instinct to _mount_ and _claim._ He pistons into Sherlock with ruthless drive, delighting in the way Sherlock has gone still and pliant beneath him, wholly receptive to his advances.

He feels his balls pull tight to his body in preparation for release, and he grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and presses down, holding him still as he forces his come inside him. He continues to ride Sherlock long after the last pulses of his release have been expelled, seeking to chase the last aftershocks of pleasure coursing through his body.

Finally completely spent, John collapses forward, his forehead resting between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his breath heaving and his body exhausted.

It’s eerily quiet.

John comes back to himself gradually. It’s a strange, disorientating sensation; they’ve never _unwound_ outside the privacy of their own flat before (with the unique exception of a singular tryst in a hotel suite whilst on holiday, which in John’s opinion hardly counts), and John finds himself overwhelmed with a feeling of profound awkwardness.

At home, he knows exactly what to do following one of their more violent encounters; he’d pull out and hold Sherlock close to him and smother him with praise and affection, planting kisses against his beatifically relaxed face as Sherlock would stare up at him, glassy-eyed and love-drunk. After a spell, he’d inspect Sherlock for any signs of injury, gently check his hole for tearing, then escort him to the shower, where he’d scrub Sherlock down and wash his hair while Sherlock reveled in the afterglow, letting John truly take care of him for once. Then they’d make their way back to the bedroom and sleep it off, curled up against one another, sated and content.

But none of that’s possible here.

John swallows. His mouth feels dry and he’s strangely slightly dizzy, as though everything is a bit off-kilter. He finally manages to press himself into a standing position and pull out. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably beneath him, sucking in a pained breath through his teeth as John withdraws.

Fucking hell. John should have known better than to let them get carried away like this; why the hell had he let this happen? Stupid, irresponsible, any Dom worth a shit would have put a stop to this, yet he’d gone along for the ride, thinking with his cock instead of his brain--

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds thin and brittle.

“Yeah?” John fights off the urge to panic. He needs to be calm and collected--for Sherlock, at least, if not for himself.

“Could you unlock me now, please?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, of course…” John fumbles clumsily as he reaches around Sherlock into the pocket of the Belstaff, finally retrieving the key with shaking fingers. It takes him a humiliating number of tries to successfully fit the key into the lock, and by the time the cuffs are opened with a satisfying _snick,_ John feels like he’s ready to melt into the floor with embarrassment.

Sherlock pulls himself up to his elbows and prepares to stand, but the doctor in John knows he needs to check him over. He’d been rough with Sherlock, far rougher than he should have been considering the lack of proper lubricant, and a feeling of dread settles in the pit of John’s stomach as he presses a hand onto Sherlock’s back.

“Just a second… Is it alright if I check you over? I really should, I was… um…”

“Go ahead, John.” Sherlock’s head falls forward and he sighs.

John parts his cheeks, scarcely daring to breathe. 

Miracle of miracles, everything seems in order. There’s no blood. Sherlock’s rim looks puffy and red, but it’s slick with come and shows no signs of damage. John dips his finger in experimentally to confirm, but thankfully, it reveals no signs of tearing.

“Okay, um… everything’s… alright. If you hold still a second, I think I have some tissues…” John fumbles through his pockets and miraculously comes up with a half-used travel-sized pack of wet wipes he’d left in his jacket from his trip to the zoo with Rosie that afternoon. He cleans Sherlock up as best he can, trying hard to ignore the deafening silence from Sherlock as he does so. He has no idea what Sherlock is thinking, what he’s feeling. Christ, this had been a huge mistake.

“I think… um, I think that’s most of it.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock pushes himself into a standing position, his Belstaff falling back into place, and John hears the rustling sound of fabric in motion as he pulls up his pants and trousers before refastening his belt. He doesn’t turn around.

John can’t think of what else to do, so he simply follows suit. He uses a few more of the wet wipes to give his own hands and cock a perfunctory wipe-down, then re-fastens his jeans. He stuffs the used wipes into the pocket of his jacket.

It’s still too damn quiet.

Sherlock wordlessly turns and makes his way over to the two-way mirror, staring into it blankly, as though somehow trying to conjure up an escape route through it. He looks shockingly well-composed considering how roughly he’d just been ravaged; if John hadn’t been the one to fuck him mere moments ago, he’d never suspect a thing.

It’s completely disconcerting.

John lets the minutes tick by. He’s somehow overwhelmed with the desire for Sherlock to speak first, to make the first move in getting them back on track. For the life of him, John can’t read the look on Sherlock’s face; he’s a completely blank slate, and it’s scaring the hell out of John.

But Sherlock doesn’t capitulate. After spending a considerable amount of time seemingly lost in thought in front of the mirror, he turns and makes his way back to the table, pulling out one of the chairs and placing himself squarely in it. John can’t miss the grimace of pain that flashes across Sherlock’s face as he comes into contact with the seat, but it’s gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of stoic disinterest.

For lack of something better to do, John pulls out the opposing chair and sits down. He’s still looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock is resolutely refusing to make eye contact, gazing somewhere over John’s left shoulder into the ether. John feels a bit self-conscious for staring at Sherlock so intently, so he returns the favour and casts his gaze over towards the door, and holds it there resolutely.

At least twenty minutes pass.

John is ready to crawl out of his skin.

Finally, he can’t take it any more.

“I shouldn’t have--”

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s eyes snap to John’s, and his gaze is leveling.

“I just mean--”

“Stop it. Don’t you dare apologise. That was exactly what I wanted, and you gave it to me. I’m not going to let you say you’re sorry for that. You can’t be sorry. I’m not.”

John presses his lips together. “Okay. I’m… I’m glad you’re satisfied. That’s… that’s good. Good.” He lapses into silence for a few moments, but his thoughts are rattling too loudly in his head, clawing their way out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Just… we should have negotiated that first. We’ve never done something like that in a public place before. We should have talked about it beforehand.”

Sherlock shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “So next time we’ll negotiate it. Stop worrying. It’s annoying.”

“I’m not worried. Well, no, that’s not true, I _am_ worried, if I’m being honest.”

“Why? I wanted something. I provoked you into it. You gave me what I wanted because you care about me and want me to be happy, right?”

“I… guess?” At the time it had felt a lot like just horniness, but John supposes in the nebulous sense, yes, he’d wanted to make Sherlock happy. Give him pleasure. Make him feel desired.

“So what’s the problem?”

John bites his lip. He’s not sure how to approach this delicately so as not to offend Sherlock.

John takes his role as the dominant partner in their sexual relationship very seriously. He fastidiously commits himself to consistent research about Power Dynamics, to make sure he’s fostering a healthy and balanced relationship between the two of them. He understands that as the dominant sexual partner, a majority of the responsibility for keeping things safe, sane, and consensual rests squarely in his hands when they _unwind,_ and it’s a responsibility he takes on with pride and passion. Though sometimes it can feel overwhelming, his love for Sherlock and his commitment to their wellbeing as a couple provides him all the motivation he needs to rise into the responsibilities of his role with single-minded devotion.

That said, he and Sherlock rarely discuss their roles in terms of “Dominant” and “Submissive,” and for good reason. While it’s true that John takes the lead in their sex life, there’s no question that Sherlock is the dominant partner in their professional (and, frankly, personal) life-- and John’s just fine with that. He’s learned to ignore the sympathetic glances from oblivious outsiders as Sherlock orders him about, secure in the private knowledge that behind closed doors, John will settle the score. It’s how they work. It’s how they’ve always worked. It’s a beautiful, delicate balance, something startlingly intimate and profoundly humbling that often leaves John awestruck in its wake.

So he must tread carefully here; he’s straddling the boundary between the professional, the personal, and the sexual by starting this conversation in the first place, and he knows he needs to be cautious not to overstep. He doesn’t want to make Sherlock feel coddled or condescended. He needs to make sure Sherlock knows John sees him as an equal in all facets of their life.

“The problem is that… I don’t know if we should be _unwinding_ when you’re in one of your Dark Moods.”

“You think my Dark Moods me vulnerable? Ignorant of my own desires? Incapable of consent?”

John shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t believe that. I know you’re in control of your desires, and I believe that the consent you gave today was honest and valid. But I also know that it’s not a good idea to engage in a power exchange when things are emotionally charged between us. And you can’t pretend that things weren’t emotionally charged today.”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock begrudgingly concurs.

“I was angry at you when we started that session. And though my anger receded and I wasn’t angry while we were engaging in the act, it’s not a good idea to link anger and rough sexual encounters. It can draw an unconscious correlation that can cause problems in relationships like ours. Do you understand?”

“I suppose.”

“That’s not the answer I need from you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks down at his hands, which he’s placed on the table. He’s fidgeting slightly, picking at a hangnail with laser focus and resolutely avoiding John’s eyes.

Finally, he speaks. “Unwinding makes me feel good.”

John furrows his brow. He knows this must be related to the question he’s just posed, but he’s not quite sure what the correlation is yet. “That’s… good. It makes me feel good, too.”

“When I’m in a Dark Mood, sometimes nothing feels good. But what we did today felt good. It made me forget, even if it was just for a little while.”

John takes a deep breath. His brain is reeling, but he tries to keep focused on the information he’s read on the Power Dynamics websites. He needs to keep their boundaries clear. “I want you to feel better, Sherlock. You know I do. And you know ordinarily I’d do anything I could to give you respite. But we cannot bring power exchange into the equation when you’re in that state. It’s not healthy.”

Sherlock swallows. After what feels like a short eternity, he responds. When he speaks, it’s so quiet John can barely hear him. “I know.”

John’s overwhelmed with the urge to reach across the table to take his hand, but he suppresses the impulse; it doesn’t feel like Sherlock’s in the mood to be touched yet. Instead, John offers him a warm smile, and Sherlock’s eyes flick to his face for just the briefest of moments before returning to the table.

John forces himself to press further. “I have no problem _unwinding_ with you when you’re tense, or keyed up, or experiencing an adrenaline crash after a case, or hell, even when you’re just horny. But I don’t want to _unwind_ with you during the times that you dislike me.”

Sherlock lets out a derisive snort. “Dislike you? You think I dislike you?”

John shrugs. “Certainly feels that way when you’re in your Moods. You insult me, patronise me, shout at me, then demand I leave you the hell alone. There’s not a lot of room for interpretation there. And I know it’s temporary, Sherlock, so it’s alright. I don’t mind. I wish it didn’t happen, but I don’t mind. I’ve learned better.”

Sherlock laughs. 

John is completely bewildered. “Is something funny?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and finally looks up to meet John’s eyes. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“When I’m in my Dark Moods, I don’t dislike you. I simply resent you.”

“Resent me?”

“I resent you for making me be good. It’s hateful. You make me be better than I ever could make myself be alone. When I’m in a Dark Mood, I want to wallow and rage and collapse and self-destruct and tear myself apart at the seams; but then there you are, in your sublime perfection, stubbornly refusing to let me. And not because you try to stop me with your words or even your actions; you stop me by merely _existing._ And it’s bloody _infuriating.”_

Sherlock pauses, his eyes bright and hands still. He’s glaring at John with an intensity that makes John feel impossibly small. “You make it so I can’t even _want_ the bad stuff anymore. I can’t want the drugs, I can’t want the isolation, I can’t want the nihilism and the escapism and the goddamn gorgeous high and the exquisite freedom that only comes from that surrender. I can’t want any of it because I want _you_ more. And I hate it sometimes. Because I know you’re saving me. But sometimes I don’t want to be saved, and I wish I could just… let go. But I’ll never have that selfish indulgence again. Not so long as you’re in this world.”

It’s not the first time Sherlock has done this; said something off the cuff that is so breathtaking unfiltered and potently poignant that John is completely overwhelmed with the magnitude of the emotion behind it. They don’t often say _I love you_ to one another, but in moments like this, John hears the message loud and clear.

When John opens his mouth to speak, he’s slightly mortified to hear a tremble in his own voice, finding himself suddenly at the edge of tears, but he braces himself and forces the words out. “I won’t apologise for that. Because as much as it hurts me to hear that it’s hurting you, it’s worth it. It’s worth every second of your struggle to have this-- to have _us._ All I can do is swear to you that I am working every day to be worthy of your struggle.”

“And I swear I’m working every day to be worthy of yours.”

And then John is on his feet, chair toppling over in his wake as he strides around the table to straddle Sherlock, cup his face in his hands, and kiss him as though his life depended on it.

_They can never be close enough._ John’s often overwhelmed by that sensation in a variety of situations, whether he’s inside Sherlock as they make love, or curled up next to him on the sofa on an idle Sunday morning--it’s never close enough. And this moment is no different; Sherlock’s arms wrap around John as he reciprocates the kiss, opening his mouth for John to explore, pulling John’s body firmly against his own, but it’s still _not close enough._ John all but chokes on a sob as he wills his lips to convey what his words cannot.

The sound of the door slamming open causes them both to jump. John’s head jerks up and he finds himself staring straight into the face of a very exasperated-looking Greg Lestrade.

“Well! Glad to see you seem to have sorted things out. Were you planning on texting me to come release you, or were you going to consummate your reconciliation right here on my interrogation room table?”

John is scrambling to his feet and attempting to smooth his rumpled clothes as best he can. Though he knows objectively that Greg has known he and Sherlock were in a relationship for quite some time, they’ve never engaged in a single act that wasn’t strictly platonic in his presence. Having him walk in to find John in Sherlock’s lap with his tongue down his throat has left John feeling rather exposed indeed.

“Oh, don’t be dense, Lestrade. We took care of that bit an hour ago. We were just wrapping up the boring _emotional_ part.”

Greg’s expression transforms from one of exasperation into a combination of indignant anger and mortified scandal. “You WHAT?”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! That’s not something you tell people! And don’t even _pretend_ like you didn’t know that.” John’s face feels so hot he’s fairly certain he’s going to combust into flames on the spot.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he rises demurely from his chair, brushing the wrinkles from his clothes and adjusting his jacket. “It’s not like it’s a secret, John. Greg’s been to our flat. He knows we’ve been sharing a bedroom since you moved back in. In the absence of the installation of bunk beds, I’m fairly certain he’s got no illusions of what we get up to in there.”

Greg is clearly seething; his face is a peculiar shade of puce that John is fairly certain he’s not seen before. “What you get up to in your own damn flat is none of my concern. What IS my concern, however, is you defiling government property.” 

He points an accusatory finger in Sherlock’s direction. _“You._ I’d say you should be ashamed of yourself, but I’m well aware that the concept of shame is entirely lost on you.” 

He rounds on John. “And _you.”_ John is suddenly filled with a slight sensation of trepidation. The nature of John’s relationship with Sherlock has been the elephant in the room between him and Greg for a long time; though John’s aware that Greg put the pieces together a long time ago (shortly after John’s marriage), they’ve never actually spoken a word about it between them. He has no idea how Greg will react; will he still want to be mates now that he’s seen how John and Sherlock… are? John doesn’t peg Greg for a homophobe, but objectively knowing something about a person’s sexuality can be quite different from seeing the evidence in practice.

_“You_ owe me a pint during tomorrow’s match. We still on for Allsop Arms?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, of course!” John had completely forgotten they’d made tentative plans to catch the match together the next day after work at their usual pub. “First round’s on me.”

“Make that the first three rounds, and you have yourself a deal.”

John grins at him. “Deal.”

With a sweeping gesture, Greg waves them towards the open door. “Now get out of here so I can call in the damn HAZMAT team to decontaminate this place.”

“I assure you, Lestrade, we kept things--”

“SHERLOCK!” John grabs him by the arm and all but drags him out the door. 

John leads him out of the Yard with an air of polite humility, Sherlock trailing smugly in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo this was supposed to be two chapters total, but then I went and had All The Feels and this chapter COMPLETELY ran away with me, so I’m adding a third chapter to wrap things up. Will post it sometime early next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to equilibrium.

They arrive back at the flat at little after 8 in the evening. They find Mrs. H perched in front of the telly watching game show reruns, having just put Rosie down for bed an hour before. John thanks her profusely; she waves him off and totters down the stairs, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

John makes them dinner in silence. He’s not sure whether Sherlock will want to eat; he’d gone straight to his chair the moment he’d walked through the door and assumed his Thinking pose, fingertips steepled under his chin, eyes distant and unseeing. John doesn’t mind; he’s rather lost in his own thoughts, replaying the events of the evening on a continuous loop. More than anything, he dwells on their final interaction with Greg.

John and Sherlock have never really been affectionate in front of another person before. Sure, he’d occasionally pressed a brief kiss into Sherlock’s hair in the presence of Mrs. Hudson, but aside from that, they’d always kept their distance from one another in public, even during social events. Something about the fact that Greg had seen them like that and hadn’t even batted an eyelash was… well, it was strangely liberating.

John still grapples with his sexuality on a fairly consistent basis. It’s confusing, to be in a sexual relationship with a man and yet to not identify as _gay;_ it’s a source of constant internal tension for him, the struggle to reconcile his attraction to Sherlock with the completely heteronormative attraction he experiences outside of Sherlock. It’s made him more reserved about their relationship than he has been about any of his relationships in the past.

And he supposes there are plenty of other reasons for the two of them to be reserved; the fact that they work together means that they need to keep their relationship professional when the situation calls for it, and to blur that line would be confusing at best. Besides that, neither of them were particularly affectionate people to begin with; Sherlock wasn’t a fan of casual contact with anyone (he found it nerve-wracking and overstimulating, he’d confessed to John), and John still had the restrained stiff upper lip so common in men of his background. Outward displays of affection were rather outside either of their wheelhouses.

But perhaps it might be nice, John muses, to take Sherlock’s hand the next time they took Rosie to the park together. That might be rather nice indeed.

He makes his way to the sitting room carrying two plates of stir-fry, and offers one to Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock takes it, and meets John’s eyes with a shy smile. He doesn’t offer any thanks, but he does tuck in without hesitation. It’ll do.

They eat in silence. It’s not an awkward silence, but a calm, companionable one. John doesn’t feel compelled to turn on the telly to fill the void; he simply allows himself to sit and relax in pleasant company.

He cleans his plate and stands to make his way to the kitchen. Sherlock follows, his plate half-empty (more than John had dared hope for), and they work in wordless tandem to clean and dry the dishes. 

Sherlock wipes his hands on the dish towel and offers it to John, who follows suit. And then Sherlock steps forward and kisses him.

It’s completely different from their encounter in the interrogation room. It’s soft and sweet and slow, a gentle smoldering that precedes the flame. There are no bared teeth or clenched fists or battles for dominance, just a smooth push and pull, give and take, familiar and divine all at once.

John wants to make it to the bedroom to make love properly. Honestly he does. He has every intention of backing Sherlock down the hall and stripping him slowly out of those maddening clothes and sucking him until he begs and then taking him slowly, lovingly, making him feel completely cherished and adored.

But that’s not quite how things turn out. Despite his best intentions, they only make it as far as the doorframe of the kitchen, and then somehow Sherlock is bent over against it, trousers around his thighs for the second time that day, and John is slicking himself up with the emergency stash of lube they keep hidden behind the olive oil and pressing inside, reveling in the way Sherlock’s passage is still open and delightfully wet from their previous encounter.

It’s been awhile since they’ve gone three rounds in one day (in separate encounters, of course; when they _unwind,_ multiple rounds are the norm, but they generally take place in the span of a single session). John is stricken with how incredibly _insatiable_ Sherlock can make him feel even at his age, and Sherlock’s high, pleading whines assure him that Sherlock feels the same. In no time, he’s wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s throbbing length and angling himself to press against his prostate with each thrust. Sherlock tips his head back and bites off a cry, shuddering into silence; Rosie’s asleep, but there’s always the chance she’ll wake if they get too vocal, and something about this show of restraint on Sherlock’s part is so incredibly sexy that John comes then and there.

As soon as he finishes, he pulls out and spins Sherlock around to lean against the doorframe as John falls to his knees and swallows him down, replacing his cock with his fingers inside Sherlock’s stretched hole, which leaks copiously as he fondles the sensitive nub of nerves within. Sherlock comes down his throat within seconds, breathing raggedly and tangling his fingers in John’s hair as he empties himself.

John continues to lick him gently until Sherlock’s erection has waned and he’s quivering from the overstimulation, slumping bonelessly against the doorframe with a contented sigh. John pulls away and presses a gentle kiss to his jutting hipbone. 

“Will you turn around for me? I just want to check you over.”

Sherlock complies wordlessly, and John spreads his cheeks to inspect his hole. He’s gorgeously messy, the evidence of their two encounters glistening between his cheeks, and John licks his lips as he runs his fingers around Sherlock’s rim. Christ, this part gets him every time. He takes a mental picture to mull over later.

“Beautiful. We’re all good.” John releases Sherlock’s cheeks and rises to his feet with as much grace as a man his age can muster. Sherlock turns back around to face him, and John kisses him once more, deep and sated.

Finally, Sherlock pulls away. “I think I’m going to go to bed. I need sleep.”

John smiles. If Sherlock had eaten dinner and was now deigning to sleep, it surely meant his Dark Mood was subsiding. If the past was any indication, he’d be back to his old self by morning.

“Alright. I’ll join you in a few minutes, just going to get the flat in order and lock up.”

By the time he makes his way into the bedroom to change into his pajamas, Sherlock is already nestled into the pillows, looking blissfully peaceful. He reaches out for John as he climbs into bed and puts his arms around him. John twists to turn out the light, then pulls Sherlock close as they breathe together in the darkness.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock sounds half asleep already.

“Mmm. Couldn’t find my mobile. No idea where I’ve left it.”

“Oh. It’s in my coat pocket.”

“...Sherlock, what is my mobile doing in your coat pocket?”

“I put it there after I knicked it from you when Lestrade put us in the interrogation room.”

“...And why, might I ask, did you do that?”

“Getting it on with you somewhere at the Yard has been at the top of my list of fantasies for ages. Wasn’t about to let the opportunity go to waste.”

“Oh my GOD, you utter COCK.” John swats at Sherlock playfully; he can’t even bring himself to be particularly angry, knowing how the rest of the day had unfolded from there. “Wait, does that mean you had service that entire time?”

“Absolutely. Was actually waiting to see if you’d be amenable to a second round when Lestrade showed up and ruined everything.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. But now I’m curious; you said you have a list of fantasies?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you?”

“I suppose in a vague sense, yeah… Would you, um, care to share any more of them with me?”

“Good grief, John, give it a rest. You’ve rogered me three times already today; I’m not taking you again, I’m getting my bloody beauty rest.”

John huffs out a laugh and presses a kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Some other time, then.”

“Yes, John. Some other time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So any particular suggestions of fantasies you'd like to see the boys indulge in? Don't worry, I WILL be covering the attempted Star Wars role play I referenced in "Switch" ;)
> 
> My next installment is going to be more of a deep dive into their respective pasts, but I've just started working on a "Fantasies" installment and would love to hear your thoughts!


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